


Iceberg

by samwise



Series: Narcissus and the Lake [2]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:37:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwise/pseuds/samwise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's far more beneath Q's glossy surface than he likes to let on, and a large part of that is the conflict between his libido and his likely more trustworthy head.  James Bond is really not the kind of person you ought to let yourself get attached to, sexually or otherwise, and yet it seems to be happening anyway.  Sort of - if he's honest with himself.  Does he have to be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iceberg

Q is obscure, and Q is separate, and Q is clever.  He often wonders how new colleagues in MI6 are able to trust that he ticks all three boxes so quickly.  Realistically, most _ordinary_ people wouldn’t immediately believe that any unknown stranger was clever, and M16 are far more than ordinary people.

The thing is with cleverness is that, combined with deliberate fogginess and distancing, it simply can’t be proven, and the statistics don’t stack up well either.  Real cleverness is rare, and it just isn’t safe to assume that somebody is capable of it just because they can say the right things and put on a good poker face.

As it stands, though, 007 does seem to trust him.  Perhaps it’s just out of necessity, but he doesn’t think so.  There’s an ease in the way Bond speaks to him that wouldn’t be there if he wasn’t sure.  After all, the man is supposedly a genius in his own field, and no spy is careless around people they don’t really trust.

He wonders if Bond has forgotten that there is a person behind the initial.

After all, Q operates much like a computer program.  He is essentially a middle man between Bond and the information he has access to – an interface.  That’s all.  Interfaces and lines of binary can never really be anything but obscure and clever and separate from human interaction, so why would it cause any worry for Q to be that way?

The thing is that he isn’t always Q.  Sometimes he’s just William Darling who lives in a flat in South Harrow with his collection of different teas and his fine art prints, which he likes to convince himself will someday be replaced by originals.  Sometimes he pretends to think world politics are boring and that the most important question in his life is whether or not Banksy is a genius or just a bit of a prat, and isn’t it awful the way the cocktail prices are going up just as we’re all getting older and have the time to go out more?  Bloody economy.

In the end, Q has absolutely no concerns whatsoever about what 007 thinks of him.

Will Darling, however, is awfully interested in James Bond, and whether or not he’s a straight-acting gay or a straight-acting hetero – or bisexual, he supposes.  That’d make more sense.

He sips his tea and thinks about whether it’d be nicer to be fucked by him, or make love with him.

Is there a difference, he wonders?  Probably, yes.  He grimaces at his own terminology.  _Making love_.  To James Bond – to fiendishly promiscuous 007?  Please.

Q answers the phone and moves the tea aside for a moment, pushing up his glasses on his nose.  007 is confirmed to have returned from France in one piece, apparently, which is nice.  Whether or not his equipment is in-tact or not is another matter, which will likely have to wait until later.

He’s alive, though.  He’ll be there tomorrow.  There’s the point.

Later that night, Will slips his hand into his pyjama bottoms and touches himself slowly, shame-facedly and with irritation.  It should be a rule that you can’t get it up thinking about somebody until you know for certain that they go for men – that there’s somehow a chance that what you’re thinking could be a reality.  Even outside of work, he rather likes logical things, and things that make sense.  Needless to say, lusting after an apparently _riotously_ heterosexual man in his early forties who constantly has the potential to come home in bloodied bits and pieces doesn’t make a great deal of sense.

Christ, but it’s hard to resist, though.

His breath comes in quiet pants – _oh, oh, oh_ , as though he’s there and kissing the air out of him, and the thought makes him throb harder.  He speeds up, preferring to finish quickly than to draw out the embarrassment.  Really, he could go to a bar and find somebody to bring home, and it’d be much less juvenile; much more dignified.  More importantly, it’d be much less professionally dangerous.

No, though.  He keens and shudders into his hand until he’s forced to kick off his pyjama bottoms as they aren’t fit to sit in anymore, and he wonders how it might feel to have Bond beside or over him as he recovers his breath.

The man is utterly intolerable, of course.  He’s full of himself, and not nearly as clever or independent as he thinks he is, and it all smashes together to produce rashness and stubbornness on the job.  That often makes Q’s life very difficult indeed.  Frankly, it’d be more beneficial to hit him than to hit _on_ him.

It isn’t going to happen anyway, he reminds himself.  None of it will.  It’s a fantasy, and it’s his personal life, and there isn’t even the faintest sniff of it in the workplace.

He lights a candle.  Maybe it’ll chase the ghost of the thought away here, too.


End file.
